


jailbirds

by gingerfrost



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:25:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerfrost/pseuds/gingerfrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will had braced himself warily for the <i>but --</i> he'd known what he was asking, and how much. Simply couldn't care, with the leaden weight of anger in his belly. Anything that gave Hannibal a taste of his own medicine. (His own therapy, perhaps.) What he had to give in return was of little consequence.</p><p>"Tomorrow, the cameras will be off, too," Matthew said softly. "Let me touch you." And that had seemed fair.</p><p>(PWP set during Mukozuke. Will trades Matthew a blowjob for his little errand.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	jailbirds

Will is aware, somewhere, vaguely, that he isn't a bad-looking man. But he can count on the gossip and the myriad Tattler articles, his own unsociable, bitter front, to keep anyone from really noticing that. It's an understatement that he doesn't like to get close, and physical intimacy -- that's far too close.

But there are thoughts, sometimes.

Will has thought about a lot of things, sometimes not even his own, the adopted thoughts of strangers and killers. So it's not really _telling_ that there have been thoughts.

Still.

Will has thought about sex with Hannibal. He regrets that now, but it's almost beyond his control. It always seems that one of these days one of their glancing touches will just keep going. A natural progression. In the end, though: why would they? Their entire relationship is smoke and mirrors. Fever-dreams. How could there be room for something as tangible as _sex?_

Will has thought about sex with Alana. Only briefly, and guiltily. He didn't even deserve the kiss he got, he knows that. He still likes to remember it sometimes, but the heartache isn't worth imagining more than that, what would have happened if she'd stayed.

He hasn't thought about sex with Matthew Brown.

Will had barely recognized him until now. One of the orderlies treated him softer, better, that he knew, but it was demure. No conversation. No hints that it was anything besides professionalism. But none of the brisk, restrained contempt of most of the staff, and Will's clothes always washed even on days he wasn't scheduled for it. His secret admirer in all things.

So he's having to catch up. Because, it seems, Matthew has thought about sex with Will Graham a great deal.

He'd circled past Will's cage, showing his hand, his coy metaphors about _hawks_ and the word _friends_. "Anything you ask," Matthew had said to him, the pair of them hovering close enough to each other to feel their breath mingle. Nothing but the ever-present iron bars in the way. "But."

Will had braced himself warily for the _but --_ he'd known what he was asking, and how much. Simply couldn't care, with the leaden weight of anger in his belly. Anything that gave Hannibal a taste of his own medicine. (His own therapy, perhaps.) What he had to give in return was of little consequence. He was already forfeiting innocence. Now he really would be the murderer everyone thought. (But at least it's for a _reason._ )

"Tomorrow, the cameras will be off, too," Matthew said softly. "Let me touch you."

That had seemed fair.

So this time, when Matthew comes far too close to the therapy cage and watches him through the bars, Will recognizes the raw, base look of lust around the eyes, licking just barely at his lips.

Will's keenly aware of Matthew's open staring. He feels bare. Interest is novel, uncomfortably so. Will's used to fascination, revulsion, but not genuine _interest._ Even Alana had wanted in the background to dissect his psychology, split open his head and see the working gears and knobs. Idol-worship, desire: these don't get pointed in Will Graham's direction. He's a thesis paper on legs -- or a barely leashed killer -- a blank canvas. Something to study, or something to use. Not something to love.

But maybe love isn't quite the right word. When he looks at Matthew Brown, he sees _worship._

Matthew fumbles down his slacks maybe too eagerly the moment he's done just _looking_ at him. He doesn't unlock the cage -- Will almost asks why, if he's compromised the security cameras -- but he figures out what he's meant to do fast enough.

Favor for favor. Will's knees scuff against the hard concrete of the floor as he kneels, his head bowed, away from Matthew's eyes. Matthew's gaze stays fixed fierce on Will, pinning him there, like a butterfly to a board. That's all Will needs for the mirror in him to take hold, feeling too fast all at once Matthew Brown, smiling on the surface and all too happy to let others hear the quiet voice and his lisp and pass him off as a non-entity, and never see that he's so, so hungry.

Like he is now. Matthew's self-restraint -- normally infallible, steel, Will thinks, years of practice keeping himself from what he wants, he's never killed before the bailiff -- has fallen away. He feels safe in front of Will, he realizes. It's a bitter kind of comfort. The same thing that's brought him Matthew has driven everyone else away.

Matthew strokes down himself, fingers trailing along his shaft, slow, teasing himself. No noise, cut off in his throat, though his mouth makes faintly like a moan. Will's hands shake as he moves them to grip his hips, mutely watching Matthew's hands work himself, until a hand burrowing into his hair snaps him out of the reverie. Matthew brings him down -- gently -- with the grip of his fingers wound into Will's dark curls -- but not onto his dick, not yet. He leaves Will there, hovering at his tip. Makes the last few centimeters his job.

Will licks his head experimentally, slicking his tongue through the slit of his tip. And, by inches, takes him into his mouth, tongue flat against his shaft. He's no expert at this, navigating by instinct and by Matthew's reaction, testing again as Matthew makes a juddering sigh. He fists his hand in Will's hair, coaxing him forward.

He smells like musk, sweat, his soap. Will tries not to let his senses crowd him, focusing on the mechanical back and forth, wetting Matthew in sections, dragging himself back along his dick and leaving him slick with his spit. He can't take him back in his mouth fluidly just yet, mouth protesting when he shunts forward. Matthew, impatient, jerks him forward once, head hitting the back of Will's throat. His throat convulses -- stops, Will forcing himself back again, his own fingers making tight fists in Matthew's slacks.

Dipping against him, once, twice. More. Throat constricting when he goes too far or Matthew pushes, his hips jerking when Will's tongue hits him just right. Mouth watering, drooling at the corners. Will's cheeks go warm just thinking about how he must look. Bent on his knees, eyes half-lidded, fingers bunched into Matthew's pants, rocking onto his dick and his mouth dribbling.

His cock is wet enough now that Will can pick up a rhythm. He works himself along him steadily, one of his hands scrabbling up Matthew's thigh, skating through the softest parts, thumbing along his balls before he feels ready to take him in hand.

The cold iron against his face is a constant reminder of just how far and how fast he can work. Will's pressed against them, lapping and twisting onto Matthew as far as they'll allow. Matthew retreats, just barely, his hips back for just a moment, and Will follows with tongue and lips, almost gasping after.

"Greedy," Matthew points out in a murmur. Will's caught on him, denied a rebuttal. Not that he could give much of one. Not gulping down his cock like this. It's not a critique: "Better than I imagined," Matthew adds, his voice hazy and faraway. Will's dick twitches at the idea that he's _imagined this._ Spent time picturing him sucking his dick. Just like this, he wonders, or on more even terms?

That's reminded him of his own cock, hard and straining against the fabric of his boxers. He squirms and wants to get some stimulation, run his hand over himself, maybe. But when he moves his hand from Matthew's knee, he fights him, pulling his hair and yanking Will forward onto his dick. He chokes unceremoniously, eyes watering.

His hand goes back to Matthew's knee. If he wanted his attention, he's got it.

"Not yet," Matthew elaborates. His voice is husky, barely audible, mumbling down to Will. "I want you to taste my cum first. So don't get distracted, Mister Graham."

And Will can't help but swallow at that -— preemptive as it is -— something almost instinctive in him boiling up to leave his fists tightening on his scrubs, pulling him closer. Now that he knows where the hoops are, he can jump through them.

That's Matthew Brown's design, after all.

When Matthew blinks now, his eyes stay closed longer, threatening to shut tight -- but Matthew can't waste the sight of Will on his knees. He's been making do with fantasies for too long to not burn that into his memory for later. And Will, now helpless to do anything but follow those fantasies to the letter, opens wide and takes it when Matthew starts rocking forward into him. His pace is measured, not frantic, keeping himself from the sharp thrusts Will can tell he wants. He's pulling his punches.

Will moans deep in his throat, fingers digging white lines across Matthew's thighs. He shudders once in response -- and his hips quicken, holding him steady by the hair while he fucks his mouth. Will loses his grip on himself, reflecting Matthew's mounting lust, letting the aching heat building in his spine wash over him, thinking only about how fucking much he wants to feel Matthew inside his ass, how much he wants to touch himself. 

"I'm going to come in your mouth, Mister Graham," Matthew tells him hoarsely, and his voice is just a shade higher in excitement, as though he's sharing something exciting. (And maybe he is.) "A part of me in you." It's not a warning, it's a revelation. And as though responding to the thought, his cock pulses, twitches. Cum spills down Will's throat in hot strands. Matthew's fingers are wrapped in Will's curls tight enough to hurt and his breath staggered.

" _Will._ " After _Mister Graham, Mister Graham, Mister Graham,_ the teasing formality, his first name is intimate. Like Matthew has been saving it for a special occasion, something of meaning. Like setting out the nice silverware for guests. Like a present. Will certainly feels like he's been given one.

He lets Matthew's dick out of his mouth with a light, final _pop_. Matthew's breathing is raggedy, staring down at Will with naked adoration. Will wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, remembering to be ashamed, averting his gaze and fixing on a hairline crack in the floor instead of Matthew, all too intense with afterglow.

"Can I..." Will half-asks, his voice hoarse with his throat's abuse. He stumbles to his feet, hyperaware of how achingly hard he is.

"Sorry, Mister Graham," Matthew says, although he doesn't sound terribly apologetic. He shimmies himself back into his clothes, unworried about the mess. "Our time is limited. And call me superstitious, but... I want to leave us something for next time."

Matthew laughs at the face Will hadn't been aware until just now he must be making at that. He dares to lean in and catch at Will's mouth with his teeth, softening the bite into a real kiss. Not caring that he can taste his own cum on Will's tongue.

"Think of it as a reward for when I come back," he whispers, forehead resting against Will's. "And I will come back. You'll be free." He stays there for a too-short heartbeat, kissing him one more time quick and chaste to mark the promise.

And, that night, sleepless and animated by vindictive tension as he waits for the news (that he's damned himself as a killer with Matthew's hands, but Will doesn't care, as long as he goes to hell right alongside Hannibal), Will thinks about sex with Matthew Brown.


End file.
